Blood, Tea & Sympathy
by Cashmere
Summary: Spike & Giles commiserate over the loss of the Slayer.


Blood, Tea & Sympathy

Blood, Tea & Sympathy

by Cashmere

  


DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters...they are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and 20th Century Fox. Joss has created a rich and marvelous well to drawn from...I'm just using his characters for my own and a few others' amusement. That being said, this fiction is MY creation. I want people to read and enjoy it. If you like it, [][1]email me, or post and tell me! If you want to post this particular fic on a site, just ask. Thanks!   
  
  


The whistle of the tea kettle roused Rupert Giles from his chair, where he sat reading, engrossed in the obscure details of an ancient Hittite sacrificial ceremony. He seemed uncharacteristically cozy in a cashmere sweater and jeans. But it was Sunday evening, the one day of the week where he ceased being a member of Sunnydale's retail community and tried to claim some quality time for himself. 

He set the dusty tome on his desk and walked into his narrow, galley-style kitchen to make a cup of tea. The ritual never ceased to make him feel a little homesick for England. He poured the boiling water over the tiny, silver infuser and carried the cup and saucer back to his chair. He set the teacup down and reached for his book. It was a fourteenth-century translation of a Babylonian copy of a Hittite record of the Ceremony of Gladesh the Destroyer. Old habits died hard. A sad look stole across his face. So, here he was, alone in his flat, pouring over the cramped, hand-written text of a language that, he had to admit, was not his forte. 

As he struggled with a particularly difficult passage, he found himself wishing Wesley was back in Sunnydale. Giles contemplated calling Wesley Wyndam-Pryce in Los Angeles, where the British ex-patriate and former Watcher was readily accessible for consultation. He quickly quelled the thought, even though his short-lived replacement's language skills might have exceeded his own, mainly because Wes' arrogance about it mitigated Giles' need for a speedy translation. And the research topic was delicate: Not something he wanted to bring to Wesley's attention and, by extension, Angel's. Buffy's former lover might have a great deal to say about Giles' choice of reading material. 

He closed his eyes and took in the scent of the tea. His flat seemed very quiet without the usual clamor of his youthful charges. He reveled in it for about thirty seconds. The peace was shattered as Spike burst through the door, unannounced, unwanted and unwelcome. 

"Spike," he said, "I won't bother to tell you again. The next time you enter my home, you'll do it with a stake through your chest." He was disgusted more at himself for not revoking the vampire's invitation to his apartment than he was with Spike's actual presence. 

Spike grinned at his fellow Englishman and shook his head. "Been wondering myself why you never pulled up the welcome mat on me, Giles. Thought for sure I'd hit another barrier here." 

Giles removed his reading glasses and gave the vampire a baleful glance. "I am wondering that very thing myself at the moment," he said, picking up his teacup. Giles crossed the floor towards the bar. The English vampire was more than a disruption. Spike was a serious problem-with or without the anti-violence technology planted inside his skull, he still posed a possible threat to the young people Giles was honor-bound to protect. 

At one time, Giles believed Spike could have been a useful tool in the battle against evil that raged in this sleepy, California community. Ever since the fortunate incident that left Spike incapable of harming human beings, the vampire had proved exceedingly helpful to him-and Buffy. He frowned again at the thought of the Slayer. However, time had revealed the vampire's ulterior motives. 

"Now, Rupert, is that any way to welcome an Englishman into your home? Come on…'ow's about a cuppa?" Spike asked as he made himself comfortable in the chair Giles had recently vacated. 

"Spike, why Buffy never staked you is beyond me." Giles turned his back on the vampire. Setting his cup down on the bar, he placed both hands on the counter. "But believe me, even though Buffy never killed you, doesn't mean I won't." Spike's cocksure smile faded. He leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees. "I guess I should take that threat seriously," he said. 

"You should." Giles turned to face the blond vampire. 

Spike looked up at Giles. The Watcher had crossed his arms and was leaning almost casually against the bar. A century of hunting humans had given him an amazing amount of knowledge and insight into their behavior, as well as their body language. He quickly sized up the former librarian. There was no mistaking the hostility or the quiet anger Giles' posture relayed. Giles was still trim for a middle-aged man and Spike had seen him in action enough to not make the mistake of underestimating him. For a moment the vampire's features stilled and his eyes went black. 

Just as suddenly, the grin returned and Spike stood up. "Look, Giles," he said, "I know you and I have our differences, but we also have something in common." 

"Don't say it." Giles warned. The Watcher stood up to his full height and glared at Spike. His voice was even. "You know what I think of this whole thing." 

Spike surveyed Giles' flat. He walked across the apartment, at ease in the small space. He casually ran a hand over the contents of a bookshelf as he watched for a reaction from the owner. "We both have suffered a loss, but that doesn't change the fact that we both have a job to do," the vampire said carefully. Spike looked up from the books as Giles' expression changed instantly; the anger was replaced by a look of profound sadness. Spike continued, "And even though I'm no Watcher, I'm not one to back out on a promise that I made." 

Spike returned to the empty chair and picked up the book laying on the table. An eyebrow raised as he casually flipped through a couple of pages of the tome. He recognized the book for what it was. "Bit 'o light readin', Ruppert?" He asked. 

Giles reached the end of his patience. He grabbed the book out of Spike's hands and faced him. "OUT!" 

Spike reacted slowly. He shook his blond head and chuckled softly. Knowing he'd hit a nerve, he continued. "You know wha' I think, Giles?" he asked. "I don't think this was ever about me and Buffy." 

"You delusional git," Giles snapped. "there was never a 'you and Buffy'." 

Spike's eyes narrowed. He stood toe to toe with Buffy's former Watcher and stared hard. "Ooooohh…yeah," he said slyly. "This definitely isn't about me and Buffy. This is about you and Buffy." 

The provocation worked. The book fell to the ground, forgotten as Giles grabbed Spike by the collar of his leather coat. His face reddening with anger, he hissed at the vampire, "You perverted bastard!" 

Spike knocked his hands away. "Don't get your knickers twisted…I wasn't implying anything dodgy," he said. 

Giles breathed heavily, "You have no idea what you're talking about, Spike. My relationship with Buffy was something you could never understand." 

"So was mine," the vampire said, softly. 

The quiet words shocked Giles into silence. He drew himself up and stared. 

"I didn't come here to argue with you, Mate," Spike continued. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, silver flask. He stepped aside and sat down on the sofa. Drinking deeply, he shook his head. "I am sorry about Buffy, Giles. I know what she meant to you. But I cared about her as well. It's like you don't want to believe I could have feelings. But you know it's true." 

Giles lowered his head and said nothing. He reached for his cold teacup and walked back into the narrow kitchen. Spike watched him carefully. As soon as Giles was out of his line of sight, the vampire quickly set his flask on the coffee table and moved to retrieved the fallen book from the floor. Quickly scanning the pages he had so casually regarded before, Spike kept one eye on Giles while he started tearing out pages. Lifting his shirt, he stuffed the worn pages into the waistband of his black jeans. He moved back into his seat and picked up the flask as Giles returned to the living room. Spike smiled. The strong aroma of the steaming, Earl Grey tea brought a flash of memories back to him. He regarded the his flask. O positive. Cold, but still spicy and bitter. The smile disappeared and he swallowed another mouthful of blood. 

The vampire stood up to go. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at Giles. "I know it hurts…" 

"Just go, Spike," Giles said, interrupting him. "I don't want or need your sympathy." 

Spike started to say something--opened his mouth--thought better of it. He just smiled an odd smile, shrugged and walked out the door. 

The moon was rising as he walked back through the cemetery to his crypt. Candlelight flickered, casting shadows across the cold, marble floor. He pulled the crumpled pages out of his pants and sat down on the easy chair. He read the pages, looking for a particular passage. His eyes widened as he found what he was looking for. 

"And so the Destroyer, Galdesh was vanquished. The Vanquisher achieved glory and honor at a dear price. The followers of the Destroyer scattered. The Masses wept for their Champion. Of all that had gone on before, she alone stood to conquer the Evil that was the Destroyer." 

Spike looked up from the pages. Across the crypt a sleeping form lay atop the byre that served him for a bed, a stolen quilt heaped over it. Satisfied, he returned to the purloined manuscript. 

"The pain and suffering of the people were ended, but the land mourned for the loss of their protector. So low were the people that none failed to notice the events that surrounded the resurrection...the magiks at play, dark forces beheld. Fearsome was the power that returned the fallen warrior to this world. The ground quaked and the sky wept. 

"No kidding, Mate," Spike said aloud, as he recalled the recent earthquake that shook Sunnydale, wrecked his crypt with a long, jagged crack through the interior columns of his mausoleum home. 

The week of torrential rains that followed it had flooded the cemetery and nigh ruined his few belongings. 

The parchment was worn and faded, but Spike kept reading. 

"Fear and confusion reigned. The maiden warrior returned from the inferno amidst the terror of these events. None was there to welcome her. Chaos greeted the retuned Champion, whose savage countenance stuck fear into God fearing men…" 

Spike sighed and crumpled the pages in his fist. He pursed his lips and threw the parchment across the crypt. "Good thing I don't fear gods," he said has he approached the sleeping bundle. 

He looked down at Buffy. She was fitful and sweat beaded on her forehead. Spike brushed a damp curl away and bent over her sleeping form. 

"Ssshhh," He whispered. "They're not ready for you to come back…and I'm not ready to give you up." 

Buffy's eyelids fluttered briefly. She moaned and fell back into a deeper sleep. He looked down at her. Pulling the blanket up around her shoulders, he settled back in the chair to watch her.   
  
The End   
  
  


[Back][2]

   [1]: mailto:cashmerepett@hotmail.com
   [2]: home.html



End file.
